


Hail The Saints (In a Godless World)

by thecoquimonster



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: LGBT Patron Saint Aziraphale, M/M, religious homophobia, the struggles of being gay and catholic aka this entire fic is me projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 14:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19427965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecoquimonster/pseuds/thecoquimonster
Summary: Aziraphale is always busy during Pride month.





	Hail The Saints (In a Godless World)

**Author's Note:**

> I procrastinated on this fic so hard but here I am, less than two hours left in Pride month and posting this. I made it, guys.

Aziraphale didn’t receive prayers often. Most humans preferred to ask intercession from Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel. It wasn’t technically in his job description, either, being that humans were generally unaware of his existence as an angel.

He did suppose that records of his existence had to appear somewhere, because while it wasn’t common, Aziraphale had at times received prayers. But aside from the Bugger Alle This Bible, which had not mentioned him by name, he had never found any.

Despite this, ever since the 1970s, Aziraphale found himself occasionally hearing the telltale small high-pitched ringing in his ears that announced the intentions of some human to contact him. By the time the Internet had entered into more widespread use, the prayers had gotten much more frequent.

Being that prayers were not necessarily in his job description, Aziraphale did not have a true responsibility to answer them. Heaven would be none the wiser. But… he had always ached at the thought of human suffering. He had given his sword to Eve, after all, to give her and Adam protection and warmth.

And he usually had the time to get to them all. Ever since the failed Apocalypse, Heaven had been leaving him alone. And people had stopped trying to buy out his bookshop. So yes, he had the time to stay on top of a little side-project such as this.

Except in the month of June.

He didn’t know precisely how humans knew about him, but the fact was that someone, somewhere knew about him. And that someone, somewhere, had gotten certain ideas. At some point, he had been appointed as a sort of patron saint. He didn’t know how or why, but, well there it was.

It was quite flattering, really, that people feeling ostracized by their religion would turn to him. He felt a deep kinship with them. He was gay, for a start.

Perhaps it was a little too early-on in the practice to think of it as _tradition,_ but it seemed that June first would have been, had he been an officially recognized patron saint, his feast day. Which was the reason that the instant the clock stroke midnight, Aziraphale’s ears rang.

It was incredibly irritating, that. Aziraphale had long begun to deal with prayers by simply miracling them into the written word; he waved his hand and an envelope appeared at his desk. He made his way to it and opened the envelope, began to read the contents of the letter.

_Compassionate St. Aziraphale, patron angel and protector of LGBT individuals, I beg that you lend me your strength and grace. I know I am a lesbian. I have screamed and pleaded with the Lord, but I have come to terms that I cannot change this about myself. Nor do I want to. But I still struggle._

_My parish priest Father Thomas says that my existence is not a sin, and yet he has said that it would be sinful to have sex with another woman._

_But I think that without that form of intimacy, I’ll be miserable. I don’t know what to do. I don’t believe God wants me to be miserable like this. But sometimes I feel like it’s better to be safe than sorry._

_I pray that you help me to listen to and follow my conscience and grant me peace._

_Amen._

And this young lady’s request was precisely why he felt such a kinship.

Aziraphale had spent millennia struggling with the fact that his love and his conscience conflicted with that of what he was told was right. That it was dangerous. On bad days, Aziraphale still found himself slipping back into those old worries.

That loving the earth as he did was wrong. That loving _Crowley_ as he did was wrong. That he should have gone along with the party line.

But if he had, Aziraphale would have lost everything dear to him. He didn’t want anyone else to make that mistake.

He began to think up a response.

Answering prayers was. Hm. It was more difficult to answer prayers than it was to actually pray. Humans didn’t mind sending messages to some celestial being, but getting a response, in words at least, was a bit too much for them. Aziraphale had replied to some prayers with what basically amounted as a voicemail before, and immediately he would get a prayer from the same person along the lines of “holy shit am I going mad?” After a while, he had stopped doing that.

This meant getting creative, however. Often, he tried simply to project feelings to those who prayed to him; wanted them to feel heard and comforted.

The “holy shit am I going mad” messages were replaced by prayers of thanks.

The problem with projecting feelings in response to prayers was that vague feelings of comfort were not altogether helpful materially. People still suffered, still felt isolated within their own community, still faced danger and fear.

Aziraphale felt tempted to give a visit to this Father Thomas, but that would mean having to pay a special visit to every homophobic priest and pastor out there. And while Heaven was leaving him alone, they would surely take note of that many larger scale miracles.

So Aziraphale did what he always did when he received a letter filled with this kind of pain, and imagined himself giving away another flaming sword. Strength and warmth and protection.

One prayer down.

Aziraphale’s ears rang and a stack of envelops appeared on his desk before him.

He brandished his pen and mentally prepared himself for a busy feast day. He hoped that not all of Pride month would be this busy; June _first_ was his feast day, after all, but experience told him that his entire June was booked.

Aziraphale had gotten all types of prayers over the years. Some of them were just frustrated rants in all-capitals. Most incoherent screaming was left for God Herself to decipher, but that didn’t mean Aziraphale didn’t try. Who knew if God would do anything about the prayers anyway?

One such prayer looked like this:

_Dear St. Aziraphale…._

_AAAAAARRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH AAAAAWWWWAAAAHHHHHHH EEEEAAAAAAA_

_AAAAAAGGGGGRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAA_

With not even an ‘amen’ to signal its close. But Aziraphale almost never snapped these letters back into sound, because hearing the sobs that his miracles desperately tried to transcribe would be unbearable.

It was rather difficult to read about all the hardships that the community faced. And there were so _many_ prayers. It reminded him why he usually got the humans to do his own work for him, but he could not stand by and watch suffering—he never could.

Besides, the prayers weren’t all full of anger or frustration.

_._

_St. Aziraphale, patron angel and protector of the LGBT community, I wish to give thanks to you for your steadfast support and love._

_I came out to my parents as gay, and they embraced me with more warmth than I could ever have imagined. I only pray that others in my situation can find the same love and acceptance within their own families._

_Amen._

.

Aziraphale clung to these prayers of gratitude like a life preserver in deep waters, and it meant all the more when they prayed for others. He made sure to keep these letters in mind; these were the people he would want to get to help him with his work. These were the people who would want to build a better world.

Thwarting evil wasn’t about stopping a certain demon anymore. If Aziraphale was truthful with himself, he would admit that it never had been.

.

_Dear St. Aziraphale the Principality, protector of the LGBT community, I HATE—can I curse?—I FUCKING HATE the expectations put upon me to marry a man._

_I’m attracted to men! I’m bisexual! But everyone around me just assumes that liking other women is just a phase I’ll eventually get over. That I’ll end up with a man someday, so what does it matter?_

_I’m so godda—I’m so fucking sick of it._

_I know that changing their minds is a long-shot. I don’t even think I’m asking for the patience to deal with them. I just want… to not feel like my identity as a bisexual doesn’t matter. I want to feel like I can marry whatever gender I want to, and they’ll be the love of my life._

_I don’t know if that’s something that you can grant me. But I’m beginning to feel trapped by the expectation that just because I am attracted to men, I will marry one._

_Amen._

.

Aziraphale worked tirelessly through the night and the day. He didn’t even notice that June first had slipped into the second, and the third, the fourth…

Eight days had passed before Crowley sauntered into the bookshop, the door slamming locked behind him. “Angel!” He sounded as though he wasn’t able to decide whether to be irritated or concerned. “I haven’t heard from you in over a week. Is everything all right in here?”

At his desk in the backroom, Aziraphale started and pushed away from the ever-present stack of prayer letters. He called back to his friend, “I’m just fine, my dear. Dreadfully sorry if I worried you.”

Crowley made his way to the backroom of Aziraphale’s shop. “Wasn’t worried. Just wanted to know what was keeping you so busy.”

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and stood. He drank in the sight of Crowley like a glass of cold water after being stranded in the desert. Crowley glanced at the stack of papers covering Aziraphale’s desk. He studied the papers for a moment, his face gently morphing into a frown.

“I thought Heaven was leaving you alone,” he said.

“They are,” Aziraphale assured. “I suppose you could call this a side-project. I took it up on my own.”

“Ah,” said Crowley, breaking into a relieved smile. “Well, if it’s only a side-project, I wonder if I could tempt you away from your work? Take you out to lunch?”

Aziraphale guiltily looked at the letters on his desk. The stack of envelopes seemed to get larger with every moment. Because it did. He really wanted to get to them all, but… He never really could say no to an offer of a good meal with Crowley.

“The Ritz?” Aziraphale asked.

“Of course,” said Crowley, moving aside to let Aziraphale brush past him. “For you, only the best.”

The two of them sat at their usual table, Aziraphale swirling the wine in his glass as they waited for their orders to come out and Crowley leaning back on his chair, nursing his own wineglass. On the other side of the dining room, a pianist played a soft melody. It should have been a relaxing afternoon, but in the absence of his desk and all of the letters, the prayers had begun once again to manifest themselves in the form of tinnitus.

Just because he didn’t have to answer prayers didn’t mean that they wouldn’t make themselves known to him. Prayers always reached the people they were addressed to. Aziraphale tried to focus on the piano’s melody to push through the ringing in his ears. Lunch would be over soon and he could get back to work.

“So this side-project,” Crowley began. “What is it? It’s keeping you awfully distracted.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale said, a little absently.

“Ten days I haven’t heard from you,” Crowley reminded him. “And you seem a bit preoccupied today.”

“Right, right.” Aziraphale nodded and finally took a sip of his wine. “It’s June.”

“Yes, I know that, angel.” Crowley set down his wineglass on the table. “What’s so special about June?”

“Pride month,” Aziraphale clarified. “It’s Pride month. Oh, I don’t suppose I’ve told you this before, but I—well, it seems that the LGBT community regards me as a patron saint.”

Crowley threw his head up to let out a laugh. “And you just went along with it?”

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked. “I identify with them.”

“Identify with them? How so?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale waved his hand vaguely, “in about all the ways one can identify with them, I suppose.”

This made Crowley smile. “So, what then? You’ve spent all this time just answering prayers?”

The waitress briefly interrupted to bring them their orders, but as soon as she left, Crowley took a bite of his meal and cocked his head.

“I get a lot of prayers during Pride month,” said Aziraphale. “I’m getting some as we speak.”

“As we speak?” Crowley grinned. “What’s the one praying to you now saying?”

Aziraphale wanted to argue that sharing would be a terrible breach of privacy, but this was Crowley. Who would Crowley tell? Besides, it felt… good to be sharing this part of himself with Crowley. He never had before. He took a few moments to focus on the prayer, letting the ringing focus into a thread of voice.

“He’s asking for help in getting a boyfriend,” Aziraphale told him.

“And so you, what, you—” Crowley snapped his fingers, one of their signals for miracling. “Help them get boyfriends and girlfriends?”

“Not exactly. It’s more… granting them confidence or security, sort of thing,” Aziraphale said. “Wouldn’t feel right miracling up a girlfriend for some lonely lesbian out there. Might make an awful mess of things.”

“Huh,” said Crowley, “and, well… You’re a patron saint of the LGBT community. I don’t suppose all the prayers you get are as lighthearted as someone asking for a significant other.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed, letting his shoulders drop. “Many of them are quite sad.”

“Why don’t you just do a miracle, make the cishets illegal? Give ‘em a good taste of their own medicine,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled. “You know it doesn’t work like that, my dear.”

Crowley put on a face of faux disappointment.

After lunch, he insisted on going back to the bookshop with Aziraphale. The angel wanted to protest that he really should get back to work, but he had never been able to refuse Crowley.

“I want to see more of these prayers,” Crowley said once they’d gotten back to the bookshop. He strode over to Aziraphale’s desk and picked up one of the letters, began to read it aloud: “‘ _Dear Aziraphale, patron of all of the LGBT community, I ask for you to lend strength to my girlfriend Anna, who is beginning her transition_ —‘”

“Oh!” Aziraphale grabbed the letter from Crowley’s hand. “I need to file this one away for later!”

“You aren’t going to answer the prayer?” Crowley asked with just a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Obviously I will,” said Aziraphale, giving his friend a withering look. “I keep the prayers for others apart from the prayers for the self.”

“I have never known you to be so organized,” Crowley said, with a glance out to the main room of Aziraphale’s decidedly unorganized bookshop.

“If you’re just going to get in the way of my work, I would prefer you leave.”

Crowley made no move to leave. Instead, he sat back on the couch and crossed one leg over the other. “Surely you wouldn’t mind a drink while you work? Might help you come up with more creative solutions.”

Aziraphale looked at the glasses and the bottle of wine that Crowley had miracled onto the table, and felt his annoyance wane. Grabbing a stack of letters from his desk, he collapsed onto the sofa beside Crowley. As he opened one of the letters, Crowley popped the cork of the wine bottle and poured.

_St. Aziraphale, patron saint of the LGBT community, I… just want to cry to you right now, if that’s okay._

_I love being a lesbian. But it’s so lonely. I’m a grown adult but I feel left behind. I’ve never had a real relationship. I’ve never kissed anyone._

_I’m scared that I’ll never find someone. I’m scared that if I do find someone, they’ll pressure me into sex that I’m not ready for, because I’m twenty-five—I should be ready for sex, shouldn’t I? But I’m not ready for it. I know I want it at some point, but I want to take things slowly. Is there someone at my age who wants to take things slowly? Who wouldn’t mind waiting months or a year or more for sex?_

_It’s just so lonely. I don’t even know if I want a relationship right now, but all I know is that I’m desperately lonely._

_Please send me some comfort._

_Amen._

Despite the company Aziraphale was keeping tonight, he could not help but feel an empathetic pang of loneliness himself. He let his hand wander closer to Crowley’s, and their pinky fingers hooked around each other. Then he didn’t feel so alone anymore. He hoped the poor girl who had sent this prayer didn’t, either.

At some point during the night, his head swimming with alcohol and all of the prayers he’d read, Aziraphale must have fallen asleep. He awoke with a crick in his neck, his hand still outstretched to the other end of the sofa. But Crowley was nowhere to be seen.

On his desk, all of the letters had disappeared.

“‘ _Oh, dear St. Aziraphale_ ,’” said Crowley’s voice from the doorway. Aziraphale started and turned to see Crowley leaning on the doorframe with a letter in his hands. “‘ _I think the girl that I’m in love with returns my feelings, but I’m not sure. We have been best friends all our lives. She takes me out to drive around. She takes me to lunch. She listens to everything I say and calls me things like ‘my love’ and ‘honey’ and ‘angel.’ Makes me laugh. But those are things we’ve always done together. Are we best friends or have we already been girlfriends for longer than I can tell?_ ’”

He dragged his gaze up from the letter to meet Aziraphale’s and whispered, “‘ _Amen_.’”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, stepping closer to his friend.

“I think she’s waiting for an answer,” said Crowley, waving the letter.

“If—well, I suppose if her friend does all those things for her, it’s a safe assumption to make,” Aziraphale replied. “Crowley—my dear—did you answer all of those prayers that were on my desk?”

“I did. You fell asleep. Haven’t known you to drift off in all 6000 years,” came Crowley’s absent reply. “And what about this one’s other question? About whether or not she and her friend are actually girlfriends?”

“I think… if she wants to know if they are girlfriends, it’s rather up to her to decide.”

Crowley nodded. “And what do you think she’ll decide?”

“If she is as in love with her as she says,” Aziraphale said, making his way towards Crowley slowly, “then, yes. Of course she’ll decide to be.”

“What about you, Aziraphale?”

The angel swallowed, gently taking the letter from his friend and folding the paper to slip it into his pocket. Aziraphale reached up to cup Crowley’s cheek.

“Yes,” he said, and pulled Crowley down into a kiss.


End file.
